I'm not sure about writing this post. It's a story without a real beginning, middle or end because there is so much that is fuzzy - when I dig to try to clarify details my chest gets tight and my stomach clenches and my mind spins - it literally feels like it spins and I can't focus on anything let alone what I am trying to search for answers for.
And for me clarity is important, it's safe. Black and white is safe. I like academics. It's safe. Even within the flexible boundaries of exploring personal beliefs or philosophies there are boundaries.
This story has no boundaries. It is fuzzy around the edges. There are gaps. My fear is of being wrong - in any detail. Being wrong is my fear in life. I try hard to not make mistakes - of course I do - but I am crippled inside with shame when I make even small mistakes. My outside mask hides the inner turmoil.
I am trying to avoid starting the story, because I am not sure when it starts. Some facts.
I am forty years old.
I am the second child of three in my family, the only girl. I have a twin brother who was born first - somehow it was always important in my family that he was the oldest. I have a younger brother - 5 years younger. There is also a half brother whom I barely know - I knew nothing about him until I was told he existed when I was 18.
Growing up we spent a lot of time playing with our cousins on my mothers side - at their houses and at my grandparent's house. Oddly I have few clear memories of them at my house. I don't know if they didn't come around often, or if that is another gap in my memories. My oldest cousin B was 4 years older than me and he died when I was 12. I feel anger and guilt towards him. Anger and blame towards him for starting this, and guilt because I blame someone who died so young. Because his death was always viewed as the great tragedy in the family. He was the eldest grandchild, bright and loved by all.
Next eldest was his sister, T, two years older than me. Then there was me, my twin brother and a different cousin R. R was the eldest boy in his family too. I think it was a great source of pride that the boys were born first. It was a very patriarchal family - at least according to my uncles. I don't think my Dad cared about that. Two years younger than me is A, R's little sister.
I guess that means I was 71/2 when B died.
That's so little.
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Sunday, 25 November 2012
Emotions
The name peeling back the layers came to me as I was thinking about what this whole process of trying to heal from what they did is actually like for me. It is a constant peeling back of the layers to reveal another surprise - I wish it was like the childhood game of pass the parcel, but when I think of the analogy, I'm afraid I envision an onion. It hurts.
One of the first layers that I peeled back revealed to me my first real taste of the fact that what happened so very many years ago, DID impact on who I am - this fact has smashed me over and over as layers are peeled back. That first layer revealed to me that I struggled to understand and recognise my own emotions. For instance, I knew that I was angry, really angry, waves of wanting to scream and throw things, smash them type angry. Now, these waves of anger have been there before, but the intensity of it this time round terrified me - it felt so out of control. About 4 months into the therapy, I finally realised that the actual emotion under the rage was sadness, gut wrenching sadness - not sadness that anyone else would recognise because the tears have only just started to come more recently and I have been seeing Susan nearly every week now for 14 months. I struggle with understanding how I buried everything.
The emotion that sits with me again now is loneliness. This one is ever present. The fear of being rejected, pushed away, abandoned - being lonely - the fear of these things cripples and taints so many of my decisions. And then when I decide to do something I fret and worry over the decision - I constantly worry what others will think about me.
I wish I was normal - what I think normal would be like. Normal would be not feeling sad for no reason, normal would be going to bed at a time that allowed my body to rest enough. Normal would be liking and respecting myself enough to care for myself, not punishing myself for being me by staying up till the early hours of the morning, by shovelling food into my mouth to try to take away the aching hole that sits in my stomach constantly.
Normal would be not getting overcome by fear/anxiety/anger/sadness/obsessive thoughts. Normal would be not burning my arms, blackening the skin with the flame as punishment for being so fucked up, burning to try to stop the racing self hating thoughts that swirl and bombard me.
Normal would be not having the memory of late at night, waking as soon as the door started to open, pretending to be asleep in the stupidly vain hope he would go away. Normal would be not remembering his fingers inside of me. Normal would be not knowing any of this stuff because I would be normal, it would never have happened.
But it did. he betrayed me, he took away what should never have been his. It should have been my choice. I'm not normal, I will never be normal. This is a lonely, empty place to be in.
One of the first layers that I peeled back revealed to me my first real taste of the fact that what happened so very many years ago, DID impact on who I am - this fact has smashed me over and over as layers are peeled back. That first layer revealed to me that I struggled to understand and recognise my own emotions. For instance, I knew that I was angry, really angry, waves of wanting to scream and throw things, smash them type angry. Now, these waves of anger have been there before, but the intensity of it this time round terrified me - it felt so out of control. About 4 months into the therapy, I finally realised that the actual emotion under the rage was sadness, gut wrenching sadness - not sadness that anyone else would recognise because the tears have only just started to come more recently and I have been seeing Susan nearly every week now for 14 months. I struggle with understanding how I buried everything.
The emotion that sits with me again now is loneliness. This one is ever present. The fear of being rejected, pushed away, abandoned - being lonely - the fear of these things cripples and taints so many of my decisions. And then when I decide to do something I fret and worry over the decision - I constantly worry what others will think about me.
I wish I was normal - what I think normal would be like. Normal would be not feeling sad for no reason, normal would be going to bed at a time that allowed my body to rest enough. Normal would be liking and respecting myself enough to care for myself, not punishing myself for being me by staying up till the early hours of the morning, by shovelling food into my mouth to try to take away the aching hole that sits in my stomach constantly.
Normal would be not getting overcome by fear/anxiety/anger/sadness/obsessive thoughts. Normal would be not burning my arms, blackening the skin with the flame as punishment for being so fucked up, burning to try to stop the racing self hating thoughts that swirl and bombard me.
Normal would be not having the memory of late at night, waking as soon as the door started to open, pretending to be asleep in the stupidly vain hope he would go away. Normal would be not remembering his fingers inside of me. Normal would be not knowing any of this stuff because I would be normal, it would never have happened.
But it did. he betrayed me, he took away what should never have been his. It should have been my choice. I'm not normal, I will never be normal. This is a lonely, empty place to be in.
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Scabs and peelings
I have no idea what I am doing with this blog - it's all new to me - I guess I'll be lucky if I can even find my way back here!
Why the name? Because that is what it feels like - my life at the moment. I have been seeing Susan, my psychotherapist, for over a year now. And I still feel lost. This process is like having layers of skin ripped off bit by bit - you know what it's like when you've ignored how hot the sun is and got so burnt you peel? Some bits just peel right on off - they're ready to come off, they serve no purpose and there is new skin underneath, a bit pink still but not raw. Other bits you start to peel off and they're not ready and it hurts but there's the urge to keep going, to get rid of that scabby bit of skin in the hope that underneath might be better, nicer.
I worked so hard for so many years to justify, to minimilise, to forget what happened. I was so determined that it hadn't affected my life. I didn't/don't believe that I have the right to feel so fucked up about it - so many have suffered so terribly at the hands of others. What gives me the right to feel so bad, so worthless when my story seems so trite by comparison?
So, as I peel back the layers, I face the reality that actually what I'm finding isn't nicer, in fact it's a pretty fucked up picture underneath the carefully concealed scabs. And that scares me. What else will I discover as we keep going? Who will I be at the end? Who am I now?
Why the name? Because that is what it feels like - my life at the moment. I have been seeing Susan, my psychotherapist, for over a year now. And I still feel lost. This process is like having layers of skin ripped off bit by bit - you know what it's like when you've ignored how hot the sun is and got so burnt you peel? Some bits just peel right on off - they're ready to come off, they serve no purpose and there is new skin underneath, a bit pink still but not raw. Other bits you start to peel off and they're not ready and it hurts but there's the urge to keep going, to get rid of that scabby bit of skin in the hope that underneath might be better, nicer.
I worked so hard for so many years to justify, to minimilise, to forget what happened. I was so determined that it hadn't affected my life. I didn't/don't believe that I have the right to feel so fucked up about it - so many have suffered so terribly at the hands of others. What gives me the right to feel so bad, so worthless when my story seems so trite by comparison?
So, as I peel back the layers, I face the reality that actually what I'm finding isn't nicer, in fact it's a pretty fucked up picture underneath the carefully concealed scabs. And that scares me. What else will I discover as we keep going? Who will I be at the end? Who am I now?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)